


Weight of the echo

by tco



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 8x23 coda, Dean POV, Depression, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-01
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-25 08:13:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/950783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tco/pseuds/tco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>and the heaviest burdens are the belated answers whispered by heartless objects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weight of the echo

He’s been thinking about it, over and over again, for days. The fireballs from the sky still burning his skin and far, far beneath. One of them could have been Cas. Must have been. He doesn’t answer when he whispers, he doesn’t answer when Dean shouts until he’s sore. Like he didn’t make it this time. Cas kept coming back, didn’t he, though. Except, maybe this time, it was too high. Heaven is too high. Too high with everything up its ass and look where it got them. Maybe he shouldn’t have halted Cas’s hand. Maybe he should have let him kill the bitch. Hell, maybe he should have done it himself. He keeps thinking.

He puts his hope in this place. It’s heavy with knowledge perhaps it is about time for him to try to understand. When he sees everything through the day and knows that Sam is alive, fed and not worse than he was the night before, after he puts his brother to sleep and he can hear his breath is calm enough to let him be for the night, he opens himself up to the countless words dripping out of the bookshelves and dust-covered folders. They had to know something. They had knowledge about Angels way before any hunter could even think that they’re something more than a concept born of mankind’s pain and hope. They had frigging feathers. Old as balls feathers in stock when, as far as Dean knew, he was the only one to have some. They were stray and lost and he picked them up, held ‘em close. Just like he did with Cas. Like he wanted to. Hell, for what it’s worth, if Cas fell, he’s gonna pick him up again. Won’t let go this time. 

So he doesn’t let go of research, either. Time stopped being a factor, there are no days and no nights to distinguish. Lights are on 24/7, maybe to guide him, maybe to give the illusion that there’s a beacon showing Cas the way home. There’s just swapping between Sam, trying to get him better and books, dust and reading, sometimes accompanied with meals consisting mostly of coffee or whiskey. He’s been nesting. He’s not, anymore. How can he. This ain’t a home. It’s a catacomb echoing with illness and silence. No reason to open his mouth other than to drink or curse. The chair next to his bed isn’t waiting anymore, it’s mocking. He hasn’t been in his room for days. The memory foam remembers not only him, but all of his fears and prayers as well – both the hopeful and the hopeless ones. It remembers too much. So when he enters the room, the words all over again try to struggle their way through his throat. He swallows them down and drowns in nausea. This time he knows his words won’t do shit.  
In fact, all his words ever did in his life was either too much or not enough. Maybe his mouth is worse than his hands, after all.

He finds the book. Or rather, it finds him. Sam is coughing blood again, Crowley is unyielding, Kevin’s unwilling to cooperate, Cas is fallen, cold and -- and he’s so tired he barely sees straight anymore. And he’s only got two fucking hands. He punches a bookshelf as hard as he can, and hell, isn’t it refreshing - at least he can feel something, even if it’s just his knuckles burning. But the fragile shelf decides to defend itself – several volumes fall on him. Resigned, he picks the one that hit him in his fucking arm. Even household items are against him. He’s not surprised anymore. He doesn’t think he’s able to be, anyway.

He’s wrong. The book has got some Angel lore, older than he’s ever seen, translated in side notes by some sap from a language he had no idea it even existed. It can be shit. It’s most likely shit. But so far, it’s the only lead he’s got. So he keeps on reading, the details of what he’s seen and known so far whirling around his head with the speed of sound, telling him what to look for. He thinks of Cupids, of bows and wings on fire. He finds it. The malevolent spell, written down innocently as if it were s grocery list. He reads: _take away the heart of a Nephilim fruit borne of the bond of flesh and of Holy_. He reads: _take away the bow through which an Angel is bound to offer love to all humans_. He reads: _take away the core of an Angel who fell in love with a man_.  
He hides his face in his hands. He trembles and shatters in silence. This isn’t the “I need you too” he wanted to hear. But this is the only one he gets. The one that is a curse instead of being a blessing.


End file.
